


He left the thorn wi' me

by thomasin



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Heartbreak, M/M, Moving On, SPECTRE (2015) Fix-It, except it doesn't really get fixed, quite the opposite in fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28969206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasin/pseuds/thomasin
Summary: Q pays Bond a visit on Burns Night and makes a request.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	He left the thorn wi' me

“... _Aboon them a' ye tak your place,_

_Painch, tripe, or thairm:_ …”

He wakes on his front, head twisted to the side. There is a tight pain between his shoulders and starched cotton under his nose. Around him the intermittent bleeping of monitors. And to his right, in a stilted voice:

“ _Weel are ye wordy o' a grace_

_As lang's—”_

“Your accent could do with some work.”

Q looks up from his phone, miffed.

He is in the chair next to Bond’s bed; sleeves rolled up, left ankle resting on right knee – exposing a stretch of tanned calf between sock and trouser hem. His hair is shorter than it was when Bond last saw him a year ago. He is looser: more relaxed.

“007. Happy Burns Night. Or should I say burns month?” Q says, looking at Bond’s back significantly.

“That bad?” he asks, trying to shift himself. The pain he felt on waking intensifies.

“Don’t!” Q scrunches his mouth into a wrinkle until Bond stills again. “Do as you’re told and you’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Second and third degree burns on my upper back,” Bond guesses. “Concussion upon impact and”—he flexes his foot experimentally—“sprained ankle?”

Q does not seem impressed by his attempt to self-diagnose.

“You avoided the concussion, actually. If you’re feeling foggy it’s because they sedated you.”

“Well that was quite the rendition, to have roused me from medically induced stupor.”

Q rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you have a go then,” he says, holding out his phone with _Address to a Haggis_ still glowing on the screen. “Since you think my performance was so lacklustre.”

Bond snorts and waves him away.

“I’m afraid my Scottish accent is even rustier than yours.”

“Now I don’t believe that,” says Q. “A proper highlander like you.”

“Burns was not a highlander,” he feels obliged to point out. “And I grew up speaking French at home. English was for school, and there weren't many Scottish accents among Fettes students.” He pauses, finding the trace of a memory. “But I suppose I must have sounded Scottish at the village primary school.”

“Now _that’s_ an image,” says Q, clearly picturing a teeny-wee Bond scampering about the Scottish countryside. Bond would wager good money that he’s picturing him incorrectly – no one ever believes that his ears have always been this size. “Do you know, I never thought of French as being your first language. Do you dream in French?”

It had been less and less, over the years, then more often again with Madeleine. Now, the occurrence seems destined to decline again until it fades to nothing. The inevitability of it does not feature highly on his list of current regrets.

“Sometimes,” he says, because he does not wish to say all that to Q. “Which hospital are we in?”

It is Chelsea and Westminster. He is relieved to know he’s near his flat – he doesn’t fancy a long cab journey like this. But it gives him pause: Q’s soft collar shirt and twill trousers don’t pass for officewear – even by Q’s standards. He has not come from Vauxhall. Assuming Q has not moved flats since they last saw one another—

“Long way for you to come for a visit, Q.”

“It was the least I could do,” Q says, confirming his theory. “Since you provided me with a free flight home yesterday.”

“You were in Egypt?” Bond asks, making some effort to mask his incredulity. Though it does explain the tan.

“What, did you think my extended – and much-deserved, I might add – time off was a convenient ruse to avoid welcoming you back to London?”

He is poking fun, but Bond isn’t convinced Q’s good mood will survive Bond admitting that, yes, that is exactly what he had thought.

They had not parted on the best of terms, after all. He had not thought about it at the time, but four months of fast-untangling entanglement followed by more than the same alone with his thoughts had propelled him to think on his past behaviour. 

He had not been good to any of them, he realised – not to Moneypenny, Tanner, or Mallory. He had not even been much good for Madeleine in the end – but when he’d driven away from her she’d looked relieved rather than winded. When it came to Q, however, his thoughtlessness had descended into cruelty.

It had not surprised him that their paths hadn’t crossed in the short time he’d been back on MI6’s payroll – but he had assumed that the Quartermaster’s ‘holiday’ had been arranged the moment Q got wind of his return to British soil. It had been a disappointment to find that he would have to wait in order to say what should have been said on Westminster Bridge all that time ago – but he had judged that the disappointment and the wait were far less than he deserved, so had accepted it.

“Q,” he tries. “What I did—” 

“Don’t,” Q says. “I’m not here for that.”

“You didn’t just come to read me poetry,” Bond attempts.

“No," Q allows. "I came here to tell you to stop being a prick. Do you know: I was supposed to have six interrupted weeks of camel rides in Jordan, partying in Tel Aviv, and flirtatious dinners with my _incredibly_ handsome friend who works for the Egyptian Ministry of Antiquities. And instead, what do I get? A constant stream of text messages from my colleagues – to my private phone! – telling me that James Bond is back in town and he’s dragging his guilt around like a prolapsed nutsack. Oh and by the way he’s coming to an Egyptian town near you, for a job that he cannot possibly be prepared for after a year on the lam.”

Bond had no naivety left in him: he’d known that coming back and throwing himself into the international crisis du jour would not repair things. But coming back was the only thing he’d known how to do, so he’d done it anyway.

Hearing Q’s exasperation now, he realises that – even if he didn’t know how to make things right – he could at least have come up with an approach that didn’t make things worse.

“James,” says Q, calm voice breaking through his self-recrimination. “I’m halfway to not being in love with you anymore – if you’d have let me have the full six weeks then it might even have been two-thirds. But if you carry on pitying me or bringing your guilty conscience to work like it’s my problem to solve then you’re only going to keep the wound open. Do me a favour and stop treating the job as if it’s a point for you to prove. You’re back: the point’s already proven. There’s still work to be done and we’ll need your help doing it.”

And so it is: Q has no need to hear Bond say his piece. It can do no earthly good for Q to hear Bond’s apologies now. It will not bring him any comfort to know that Bond might love him back.

Their relationship thus far has been based on Bond telling Q what he needs and trusting it will be handed to him accordingly. Q has decided to reverse the direction of travel. He is tired, he is pissed off, and yet he’s willing to offer another chance at friendship and – more selflessly – give Bond another chance at his career. In return, Q just wants to be over him.

A better person would have given him the opportunity a long time ago. Bond at least can do it now.

Q’s eyes flicker over him, appraising. Bond – beached, with his head stuck at an angle – cannot look away. He can only nod, cheek rasping along the sheets.

Q holds Bond’s gaze for a moment more, then sits back in his chair and nods to himself. “Right,” he sighs. “Good.”

He rests for a while longer, then stands up and puts his coat on. When he notices that Bond is still watching him he smiles, squeezes Bond’s forearm, and leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to publish another work after so long staring at my many unfinished drafts! I hope it inspires you all to at least TRY haggis.
> 
> The title is from 'The Banks O' Doon' by Robert Burns – a much better (if less lolz) poem than 'Address to a Haggis'.


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